


No One Walks Away From Me

by LordHand



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Major Character Death(s), Minor Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2020-04-12 16:30:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19135849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordHand/pseuds/LordHand
Summary: “The monsters are real. The White Walkers, the dragons, the Dothraki screamers. All the fighting stories we heard when we were young - they’re all real. So be it. Let the monsters kill each other. While they battle in the North, we take back the lands that belong to us.”“And then what?” he asked.“And then we rule.”





	1. King's Landing I

Disgust.

Disgust was the only word that came to mind when an onslaught of grief electrified every nerve in her body, nearly penetrating the veil of emotionlessness she had cloaked herself in for years.

It wasn’t often that the Queen found herself moved to the point of utter revulsion. Most of the Red Keep’s functionings were beneath her. After all, the lioness does not concern herself with the opinions of sheep. There is little point in a Queen fraternizing with her inferiors. Their purpose is to bow to her, and nothing more. 

But what can a lioness do when confronted by a lion of the same coat?

She approached, every stride cautious, yet powerful; reserved, yet serious. Emanating from her body was an aura of intense danger - the lioness was ready to pounce. 

His senses were always some of the finest in the world - they had to be, to support a warrior of his caliber. As his mate drew nearer with each serene step, what he saw unsettled him. He had asked her before, “Should I be afraid?” She hadn’t responded audibly at the time, but to the both of them, the answer was clear. 

Yes.

But regardless of any attempts at ferocity, he would not cower before her. He was surrounded by his men, the bravest knights of his homeland. They would join him on his journey northward. She would not harm him, he was sure of that. She could put on a convincing display of bravado, but there was no chance of her actually acting against him. The discussion would continue, undeterred by her presence. 

Without visibly reacting, he resumed his instructions. “Our men in King’s Landing will march north in three days time.” “It’ll take us a fortnight just to gather supplies for the train,” an old knight interrupted. He might have been able to conceal his discomfort with her proximity, but his men had not. None among them wanted to delay, but the threat of reprisal from their Queen was real - especially with her joining them in the same room.

“We don’t have a fortnight. If the North falls, we fall. Three days,” he stated flatly. “The remaining forces in the Westerlands will take the River Road east. We’ll meet at Lord Harroway’s town and march together to Winterfell.” He paused for a brief moment, waiting to see if the old knight objected. The man was quieted, at least for the moment. His objections were only token in the first place, after all. As he readied himself to leave the map room, a voice rang out, with the two words spoken dispelling any hope of a quick and straightforward exit.

“Ser Jaime.” 

“Your grace,” the men spoke as they bowed before her. They did not show her brother the same reverence they showed her. He who had paid them, equipped them and trained them possessed nothing but a relatively superior place on the social hierarchy. She was at its pinnacle. He was nothing more than a soldier who commanded a microscopic level of respect. Experience was his chief asset. Power was hers.

“My lords, I need a moment with my brother.” That was all she spoke before he nodded, dismissing his men to a chorus of “Your grace.” “Good,” she thought, “good. He defers to me, as he should. I am the Queen, and he is my subject.” She started walking again, though with a pace that was much less regal than before. They were alone, and her guard was lowered. As she completed her descent down the stairs preceding the map room, she noted that her image of her brother was likely the same as his of her - a toothless lion. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, with a false hint of curiosity in her voice. 

He shrugged, as if the answer was plain to see. “Preparing the expedition north.” 

“The expedition north?” she responded, her voice dripping with disdain. “I always knew you were the stupidest Lannister.” Her pace quickened, forcing his eyes to follow her lithe body as she marched across the map room. “The Starks and the Targaryens have united against us and you want to fight alongside them? Are you a traitor or an idiot?” she said, as she stopped walking and turned to face him. She stood in a small section of the map room that was sheltered by a ceiling, while he stood mutely in the center of the map room, where the sun would have shined directly upon him in the daytime. For the moment, the sun had hidden itself behind a thick cluster of clouds, leaving only memories of warmth to comfort him.

“You pledged our forces to fight our common enem-” 

“I’ll say whatever I need to ensure the survival of our House. You expect me to trust the man who murdered our father? You expect me to command our troops to fight beside foreign scum? To fight for the dragon Queen?”

“You saw it with your own eyes!” her brother shouted, moving towards her in anger. “You saw a dead man trying to kill us!” 

“And I saw it burn,” she said dismissively. “If dragons can’t stop them, if Dothraki and Unsullied and Northmen can’t stop them, how will our armies make a difference?” 

“This isn’t about noble houses; this is about the living and the dead!” 

“And I intend to stay amongst the living," she said, pausing. “Let the Stark boy and his new Queen defend the North. We stay here, where we’ve always been." 

“I made a promise,” he said, the pleading evident in his voice. 

She started towards him in a cautious gait before continuing. “Our child will rule Westeros.” 

“Our child will never be born if the dead come south,” he responded. 

She continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “The monsters are real. The White Walkers, the dragons, the Dothraki screamers. All the fighting stories we heard when we were young - they’re all real. So be it. Let the monsters kill each other. While they battle in the North, we take back the lands that belong to us.” 

“And then what?” 

“And then we rule.” 

“When the fighting in the North is over, someone wins. You understand that, don’t you? If the dead win, they march south and kill us all. If the living win and we’ve betrayed them, they march south and kill us all!” he exclaimed with desperation in his voice. 

“The Targaryens and the Starks already want to kill us all,” she said. “Most of them will die in the war.” 

“I faced them in the field,” he said. “We can’t beat them. We can’t beat their dragons!” 

“How many dragons did you see at the pit?” she asked. 

“Two.” 

“What happened to the third?” 

“For all we know, it’s guarding her fleet!” 

The Queen shook her head dismissively. “She came here with her dragons and her Dothraki and her Unsullied. She came here to show us all her power. No, something happened. The dragons are vulnerable.” 

“We can’t beat the Dothraki!” he exclaimed. “We don’t have the numbers, we don’t have the support of the other houses!” 

“No,” she responded. “We have something better. We have the Iron Bank.” Both of their paces ground to halt. Her face was an image of smug satisfaction, and his of utter perplexion. “You should have listened more when father spoke about the importance of gold. I know it’s boring for you. You just wanted to hunt and ride and fight. When I listened, I learned. Highgarden bought us the most powerful army in Essos: the Golden Company. Twenty-thousand men, horses - elephants, I believe,” she said, seating herself in a chair adjacent to a Lannister sigil. 

“The Golden Company is not here - they’re in Essos,” he said. “How is a mercenary company in Essos going to help us?” 

“Do you really think Euron Greyjoy turned tail and sailed back to the Iron Islands?” she replied. “Do you think he abandoned the chance to marry the Queen? No one walks away from me.” Her brother brought his gaze down to his feet, stunned by what she had revealed. “He’s sailing his fleet to Essos. He’s going to ferry the Golden Company back here to help us win the war for Westeros.” 

“You plotted with Euron Greyjoy without telling me, the commander of your armies?” he asked in disbelief. 

“And you conspired with Tyrion, the man who murdered our father without telling me, your Queen?” she said. 

“I didn’t conspir-” 

“You met with him in secret without my consent!” she seethed. “You planned to promote my enemy’s interests - that is the definition of conspiracy!” 

“I pledged to ride north - I intend to honor that pledge,” he said. 

“And that will be treason,” she responded. 

“Treason?” 

“Disobeying your Queen’s command, fighting with her enemies - what would you call it?” 

“It doesn’t matter what I’d call it,” he said, before abruptly turning and walking away. 

As he turned to leave, Gregor Clegane appeared as if out of nowhere, his monstrous face obscured by his gargantuan helm. The fleeing man’s path was completely blocked by the giant Queensguard. He turned to face her in incredulity. “I told you no one walks away from me,” she said. She arose from the chair, moving rapidly towards him.

“Are you going to order him to kill me? I’m the only one you have left,” her brother asked, aghast at the present circumstances. The reality of the danger he was in seemed to have emboldened, rather than frightened him. His insolence only kindled her anger further. 

“Our children are gone, our father is gone - it’s just me and you now.” “There’s one more yet to come,” she replied. 

“Give the order,” her brother demanded. She paused for what seemed like an eternity, before nodding briskly to Clegane. The armored knight quickly drew his sword, prepared to obey whatever command his Queen gave. As Clegane waited for his Queen to speak, he turned to look at his sister once again. 

“I don’t believe you,” he said, turning to exit the room. 

The Queen paused, breathing in as all the air seemed to have left her lungs. She closed her eyes, her temples straining against themselves. Time had ground to a halt. There was nothing there for her. The features of the room seemed to blend together as tears began creep downward from the corners of her eyes. Her rock, her steadfast confident, her brother - gone. Her sense of security, happiness and joy had disappeared in an instant, and her future was naught but ashes. Clenching her fists, she slowly opened her eyes. There was but one thing left she could do. The only action left for her. 

“That’s one more thing you have in common with my enemies,” she said, before walking towards her would-be executioner. “Ser Clegane. Execute this traitor." 

The giant knight moved at a speed that seemed impossible for a man of his size, seizing the exiting figure before taking the hilt of his sword and ramming it into his quarry’s stomach. The force of the blow caved in a part of the man’s breastplate and caused him to double over in pain. The enormous Queensguard took his sword in his right hand, holding it briefly up to the sky before bringing it down on his prisoner’s head in one clean stroke.

Initially there was no blood - the blow was far too quick for the body to have time to react. But in the seconds following her brother’s death, the Queen watched as a torrent of blood began spurting from what once was his neck. His head had rolled across the map room, staining Dorne and parts of the Stormlands with blood. 

It was a pity to have such beautiful architecture ruined by the death throes of a traitor. Cersei would be sure to have that mess cleaned up immediately.


	2. Winterfell I

Snow coated the battlements of Winterfell, covering every inch of the North’s capital as if it were dust on a thousand-year-old tome. The Lady of the North stared outward at the vast, featureless expanse that laid before her. In the last Summer, hundreds of farmers and tradesmen had toiled outside the gates of the castle, bringing vast quantities of grain, vegetables and arms to the stores of Winterfell. Such a display of prosperity was but a fool’s dream in the dead of Winter. Her kingdom was never a particularly warm place, but now that Winter had come, commerce and transportation had all but ground to a halt. Winterfell was lucky to see even one trade caravan a day, and even when merchants did arrive, the quantity of goods they offered was trivial. It seemed that House Stark, at least for the moment, was alone in the wilderness. No one would be interfering in Winterfell - or the North - in the immediate future. 

“The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy,” Cersei had once told her. The memories of her captivity were still vivid in her mind, and called out to her when she least expected it. Alone in Winterfell, with her family becoming alien to her - now was one of those times. 

“I will remember, your Grace,” she had said, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear. 

For the first and only time since then, Sansa wondered if she had been wrong. 

***

Fire crackled intermittently in the great hall of Winterfell, bringing some semblance of warmth into the frigid halls of the ancient citadel. At least a hundred soldiers stood in formation, with the differences between Arryn and Stark men being difficult to distinguish. “After all,” thought Baelish, “most of them are but mere levies. House Arryn’s men are impressive only on horseback. House Stark’s forces are nothing but armed rabble, and would crumble at the first hint of a charge.” It always befuddled him how such an aggressive and uncivilized people could establish themselves as one of the preeminent kingdoms in Westeros. “The North will never be entirely subdued,” thought Baelish, “but its place in the histories will diminish with time. Sansa will be one of the last great Northerners. Her wisdom and strength by itself is formidable, but with my assistance, she will be completely invulnerable. I will be by her side, and she by mine until death finally takes us.” 

Sansa maintained a gaze as dispassionate and intense as Bran’s while two of House Stark’s bannermen forcibly escorted a small figure into the room, who even in the dark of night Baelish knew to be Arya Stark. Her brow was furrowed as if in disgust, never once glancing at any of her escorts. She maintained her unflinching demeanor even as her escorts led her to the center of the hall, and the two Stark sisters’ eyes finally met. Her two escorts moved from her side to the way from which she came, closing the door that they had entered and shrouding much of the room in darkness. The small fireplace provided the only source of light in the great hall, and Sansa’s seated form blocked much of it reaching the rest of the hall. The Lady of the North was the only figure illuminated among an assembly of nearly two-hundred.

Arya finally turned to look at the small army of soldiers behind her, as if this was the first time she had noticed them. She quickly adopted a frightened and anxious expression, giving Baelish a much-needed source of amusement as he prepared for the whirlwind of events that was to follow. He had been whispering in Sansa and Arya’s ears since they had first arrived in Winterfell, trying to turn the two Stark girls against each other. Arya was intelligent, strong-willed and unpredictable - a threat, to put it bluntly. The longer she remained at Winterfell, the greater the danger he was in. If she was removed from the situation, he would become nearly invincible. Baelish had ejected himself from the intrigues of King’s Landing, of the Riverlands and of the Vale. Here, the people were naive and prone to machinations born in the south. The North was much too rural and underpopulated to have developed a sophisticated court culture. Ned, Robb, Rickard and even that sanctimonious brute, Brandon - all of the last Stark rulers had met their deaths because of their gullibility. The family, it seemed, never learned from its mistakes. “That,” thought Baelish, “will be its undoing.” 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Arya said, breaking the silence that had fallen on the hall since her entrance. 

Baelish smiled. “It seems the Stark girl has some fight in her left,” he mused. “I look forward to seeing it disappear entirely.” 

Sansa looked down briefly before responding. “It’s not what I want - it is want honor demands,” she replied. 

“And what does honor demand?” Arya asked smugly. “That I defend the North from those who would threaten it. That I would defend my Kingdom from those would would tear it asunder. And that I defend myself from those who would cast me down,” Sansa responded as Baelish looked on with barely-contained glee. 

Arya glanced to her sides before replying. “Alright then,” she said. “Get on with it.” 

“You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these crimes… Lady Arya?”

Baelish’s small grin broke into an enormous smirk as he watched Arya’s self-assured demeanor morph into the most perfect visage of outrage he had ever seen. 

“Sansa,” she hissed, “what is this? What are you doing?” 

“This is a trial, Lady Arya,” Sansa responded. “And you are the accused. If you do not have anything to say for yourself, then I will proceed with the verdict.”

“And whose murders do I stand accused of, Lady Sansa? Who has died or gone missing while I have rested in these halls? With whom have I conspired with in the short time I have been here? I have done nothing!” Arya shouted, her cries reverberating across the crowded hall. 

Sansa maintained an impassive expression, letting silence fill the great hall for a few moments before speaking. “You shall address me as Lady Stark, Lady Arya,” Sansa replied. “I am the ruler of this castle, and you will treat me with respect. As for your charges - you are accused of the numerous murders that you admitted to in confidence with your brothers and myself. Bran can attest to both hearing your confessions and witnessing them vividly through his greensight. You conspired to discredit my capacity to rule for no other reason than to satisfy a petty vendetta. Numerous visiting Lords and Ladies of the Vale can attest to your incessant efforts to undermine my credibility. Bran has also witnessed your treachery in intense detail, and is prepared to testify on that account as well. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Arya’s eyes angrily darted in between the two Stark siblings that lay seated before her. “Bran? You can’t possibly be agreeing with any of this, can you? Our family has nothing left in this world but each other - are you going to help tear us apart? Are you going to be complicit in the schemes of our enemies - complicit in his games?” she said, glancing angrily at Baelish. 

Bran stared blankly into the assembly of Lords and soldiers that stood before him, seemingly unmoved. Silence again permeated the halls of Winterfell as Arya turned to face him. After a few tense seconds had passed, the quiet was once again disrupted as Bran began to speak. “The last thing you’re ever going to see is a Stark smiling down at you as you die,” he remarked, his expression unchanging. Arya’s face transformed into a mask of utter fury as she suddenly lunged towards Sansa, causing the girl to recoil and shield her face with her arms. The moment before she reached the table, Arya feinted left and ran towards the door. All of the Arryn and Stark guards were in formation behind her, none of them close enough to capture her. The entire Winterfell garrison wouldn’t be enough to stop Arya if she escaped.

As she was mere paces away from exiting the hall to her freedom, Arya suddenly stumbled and lost her footing. She fell to the ground just a few feet from the doorway and was immediately seized by a rush of guardsmen, who unceremoniously shoved her towards the spot where she had stood before. As Arya struggled to think of a retort, Baelish spoke for the first time since entering the keep. “You would do well, Lady Arya, to not forget the power of those who stand unassumingly on the sidelines. Those who appear meek and bemused may trip you up where you least expect them to,” he remarked. 

The fires of Arya’s anger were only stoked further by his impertinence. “She’ll have your head next - I hope you realize that,” Arya replied with contempt in her eyes. Baelish chuckled and said nothing. 

After tearing her gaze away from Baelish, Arya forced herself to once again look at her sister. Sansa had recovered from the shock of Arya’s near-escape, and sat calmly upon her throne, with her hands resting upon her lap. She seemed to be waiting for Arya to say something. Taking the initiative from her accuser, Arya broke the silence in the great hall. “Every person I killed, I killed for our family. I killed to keep myself, and all of us, safe. Would you claim otherwise? Who among my targets was innocent? Could you name him for me, Lady Stark? Joffrey, Cersei, Walder Frey, Meryn Trant, Tywin Lannister, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarion, Thoros Of Myr, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain and the Houn-” 

“Then why didn’t you kill them when you had the chance?” Bran interjected, interrupting Arya’s tirade. “A Faceless Man owed you three favors. You need have only used two to end the war. The death of Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Waters would have saved House Stark from much of the violence that befell it. It could have saved Robb Stark. Saved Rickon Stark. It could have prevented the rise of the Boltons. What was the benefit of wasting the Faceless Man’s debt on three inconsequential cutthroats?”

“You spared them because of your foolish pride," said Sansa. "It has always been your most prominent characteristic. You spared them because you needed motivation for your next great adventure, your next great feat - you were going to kill the King. Not Tyrion, not Littlefinger and not myself or anyone else who was held hostage to his depravity. You. You couldn’t let anyone else have that honor. The troubadours would have praised your memory for centuries. You spared them because you couldn’t stand the thought of lying idle - of all the grand adventures you’ve been on finally drawing to a close. You are a killer, Arya Stark, and you will always be one until the end of your days.” 

Arya, once the picture of defiance, said nothing. Sansa did not wait for her to retort before speaking again. “I was going to call my first witness, but it seems that won’t be needed now that you’ve confessed. Lady Arya of House Stark, I hereby pronou-”

“I demand a trial-by-combat!” Arya shouted, interrupting her sister’s proclamation mid-sentence. Winterfell’s great hall, only a moment ago shrouded in silence, burst into a cacophony of conflicting voices, all trying to shout over the other at once. Sansa seemed completely unable to respond to her sister’s request, her hands wringing in her seat as the noise assaulting her ears grew louder. 

Baelish looked onto the chaotic scene unfolding before his eyes with delight. “I’d never thought Northerners capable of such a display,” he mused. 

“Silence!” a voice shouted, echoing across the great hall. All of the assembled Lords and soldiers, Valeman and Northerner, turned to look at the source of the outburst. Yohn Royce had moved at last from his position towards the front of the hall, and had leaned forward, towering over the seated Stark siblings. “Lady Stark is our host. She has housed us within this great keep as the second Long Night approaches, and given us security, provision and justice. You will treat her as if she were your Queen. Give her your due deference,” Royce boomed, glaring at the mass of people before them until they formed ranks once again. All the Lords had moved off to the sides of the great hall, while the soldiers returned to their formation. All conversation within the keep had ceased - for the moment. 

After a brief moment of silence, Sansa motioned for Royce to retract his display of dominance. “I am sure everyone in this hall has something they would like for me to consider at this moment, but I have made my decision. Lady Arya,” Sansa said, motioning for her to approach. “You will have your trial-by-combat. Who will stand as your champion?” 

“I will fight for myself,” said Arya. 

“You have that right,” Sansa responded. “As for myself, I am afraid that would not be a fair fight. I am not a trained killer as you are. I would call someone to fight in my name that will even the odds. Lord Royce!” she said, signalling for the enormous man to step forward. “I trust you will fight for me in the combat to come?” 

“I will, my Lady,” Royce said, bending the knee before her. 

At this display, Baelish let out a hint of a smile. “She has learned well,” he thought. “Her mind is every bit as sharp as Cat’s.” 

Sansa shifted upon her throne, resting her hands in her lap once again. She tilted her head upwards as she prepared to speak. “The venue of the upcoming combat will be in the Winterfell courtyard tomorrow at dusk. I would invite all interested parties to attend its viewing. Lady Arya,” Sansa said, motioning to her sister. “You will be temporarily housed in your old chambers until your trial. I believe you are staying there now, so I expect little disruption. You may wander around the castle, but only under the supervision of the garrison. Otherwise, I expect you to remain in your quarters. These guards,” Sansa said, motioning to the pair that had escorted her to the trial earlier, “will ensure that you reach there safely. To all others, I say this: Adjourned.” 

Baelish watched as the close formation of Arryn and Stark bannermen became nothing more than a mob as a mass of people departed towards the room’s sole doorway amidst a flurry of gossip. He remained in the same spot he had the entire trial as he watched them depart. When only a smattering of individuals remained in the great hall, he moved towards a dazed Arya and began speaking to her in a hushed tone.

“Your foolishness is impressive, girl, I’ll give you that,” he said, before flashing her a sadistic smirk and exiting the keep. House Stark would have to endure one last battle amongst the living before it could finally face the dead.


	3. Winterfell II

An endless sea of grey threatened to overwhelm Arya as she stared at the ceiling of her old room for what seemed to be an eternity. She had been laying there for countless hours, unable to sleep and unwilling to leave. The constant flickering of the candle near her bed - the room’s sole light source - kept Arya at her wit’s end, but she did not move to extinguish it. If she did, the room would be completely shrouded in darkness, and Arya wasn’t comfortable depriving herself of the security of light. 

The memory of the attempt on Bran’s life wasn’t of any reassurance to the lounging Stark girl. Occasionally, Arya would hear the rattling of spears and the rustling of clothes as her two guardsmen shifted around outside her door. Their movements were the only interruption to the tedium she had endured since her trial the previous day. Sansa’s betrayal was weighing heavily on her conscious, but Arya did not have the strength to come to terms with it. She would simply face her immediate enemy, as she had countless times before. The stable boy, the Waif, Amory Lorch and now Yohn Royce. She would have little difficulty killing the old Lord - after all, a wolf is never more dangerous than when she is cornered. 

An abrupt creaking roused Arya from her trance as the door to her room slowly opened. Arya, turning towards the source of the noise, was met with an unsettlingly familiar grin. “Lady Stark has requested that I personally escort you to the castle courtyard,” Littlefinger said smugly. “I believe she wanted me to make sure everything proceeds without issue in this short period before the trial-by-combat. Your sword is waiting in the armory; your escorts will ensure that you secure it and any other equipment you desire before the melee begins.” 

“Arya,” Littlefinger added. “I would suggest you use these next few minutes carefully. Northern combats have the tendency to be… cruel, to most involved.” “Do you think you’re clever, Lord Baelish?” Arya replied mockingly. “Celebrating your victory before the battle has even begun? You’re a fool to think that you’ve somehow gained anything from this. Why do you think I willingly walked into that hall where my sister laid in wait? She was meant to kill you. You’ve earned no favor with her, and by the time the real King in the North returns, you’ll be lucky to be anything more to her than a memory. You’re the one that should wary, Lord Baelish, not I.” 

“If I had ever taken the advice of murderers and sadists,” Littlefinger replied coldly, “I would have long since met The Stranger. You should not concern yourself with me. My fate, The North’s fate, Lady Stark’s fate - all of it will be of no consequence to you in an hour’s time.” 

“If I have so little time left, Lord Baelish,” Arya spat, “then at least do me the courtesy of addressing me properly. I am Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, am I not? Or have your schemes ensnared some poor lowborn girl, bereft of all honors and titles?” “I address you as nothing because you are nothing, Arya,” Littlefinger said disdainfully. “If you ever were a lady, that time has long since passed.” At that, Arya smiled sardonically. “It seems we finally agree on something, Lord Baelish.” 

***

As she slowly approached the center of the courtyard, Arya’s face seemed to mirror that of a statue from the crypts of Winterfell. Her gaze was hard and uncompromising, never lingering on any one of the hundreds of faces that had assembled to watch her fight to the death. Needle lay at her side, her right hand lugging the Braavosi sword behind her as if it were a headsman’s axe. She saw no reason to conceal her weapon - there is no place for subterfuge in a trial-by-combat. She would outwit her enemy in other ways, goad him into lowering his guard until he had believed himself to have won. She had endured the slaughter of her family, trained with the Faceless Men, and nearly finished her list of names. She would not be stopped by a grey-haired Valeman, his best days far behind him. House Stark would not lose another one of its members.

With her determination finally recovered, Arya slowed her pace, finally stopping about fifteen paces from the center of the courtyard. She calmed the torrent of different thoughts swirling inside of her, focusing on the man she was to kill for the first time since she had left her room. She had heard great things of the Bronze Yohn from Old Nan when she was much younger, but she saw little of the knight that the storytellers exalted in the figure before her. He was nearly double her distance away from the center of the courtyard, far off to the other side, and stood imposingly near the edge of the crowd. Royce had furnished himself in an iron curaissace, choosing to protect his ample midsection before anything else. He had eschewed any other armor, preferring to maintain some semblance of mobility at the expense of security. “He noticed how quick I was firsthand,” thought Arya. “Smart. If Lord Royce was wearing his family’s armor, killing him would be just a fair bit tougher.” 

He wore his light clothing from the previous day underneath the curaissace - he had evidently not changed since then. His greatsword was tucked in its sheath, its immense size a reminder of the Bronze Yohn’s famed strength. He glowered at her from the other side of the courtyard, taking a few cautious steps towards her. His movements revealed the forms of two distant seated figures, staring imperiously at Arya. They were unmistakably Sansa and Bran, but Arya chose not to spare them more than a fleeting look of pity before returning her gaze to her opponent. He stood still, maintaining a firm posture that reminded Arya of a predator lying in wait. He seemed to be waiting for permission to act. 

Noticing movement towards the other side of the courtyard, Arya turned to look at her sister. Sansa slowly stood up from her makeshift throne, straightening herself into the guise of a regal and imperious noble. Her gaze was stone cold, her eyes devoid of any light or warmth. As she stared outward, Arya noticed an almost imperceptible upturn to her lips, as if in a smile. Her bemused appearance reminded Arya of Queen Cersei and her perpetual smirk the day Joffrey had taken her father’s head. Littlefinger stood not far from the two Stark siblings, lurking in the upper left corner of the courtyard. “Vultures never linger far from carrion,” Arya noted sardonically. 

In the seconds following Sansa’s rise from her seat, the incessant cloud of whispers surrounding the courtyard slowly quieted, first becoming a soft echo and then, finally, nothingness. Sansa surveyed the crowd of hundreds for a second time, as if she had found them wanting in some way. Her judgmental glare was as piercing as a knife, and Arya felt herself become unusually perturbed when Sansa’s eyes idled on Arya’s figure for a moment too long. After completing her assessment of the crowd arrayed before her, Sansa took two slow steps forward, raised her chin, and began to speak.

“The rules to this trial are as ancient and eternal as House Stark. My champion, Lord Royce, will fight the accused on my behalf until one of them is dead. If Lady Arya is victorious, she is found innocent by the grace of the Gods. If Lord Royce is victorious, justice will have been done. Neither are allowed to leave until the other is dead. This trial-by-combat will commence - now.” Sansa said, raising her right hand into a fist. 

Arya started walking as soon as she had heard her sister signal the trial to begin. Her pace was leisurely, giving the girl the appearance of being completely nonplussed as she marched towards the man she was to kill. Just as Sansa was concerned with concealing her inexperience and insecurities, Arya was determined to hide her own fears. To nearly everyone assembled, she was nothing but a heartless, treasonous killer, and it would be a blessing to her if she could unnerve her opponent in the same way he unnerved her. Royce, seeing Arya move towards him, started towards her in a more urgent jog, though his heavy curaissace prevented him from picking up speed in any meaningful way. As the two approached the center of the courtyard, their height difference became more apparent. Royce drew his sword in a long, slow motion, the length of the sword rivaling Arya’s own height. Royce was nearly the size of the Hound, perhaps even greater, and Arya had known few men as tall as he. Her best hope of victory was to leverage his size against him - to move as he could not move, and strike where he could not defend. 

When the two fighters were but four paces from each other, Arya abruptly broke from her lazy jaunt and lunged towards Royce, Needle angled low towards his legs. It was impossible for the Bronze Yohn to sidestep her sudden attack - Arya was simply too far close and much too quick. Royce’s shins were the easiest target for the diminutive Stark girl - with just a quick thrust, she could bring him down to her level. Arya was, for a brief moment, elated as she watched Needle slice satisfyingly into the old knight’s right leg. The squelching of the tiny blade into his fat flesh nearly carried Arya off into a state of overwhelming euphoria as she marveled at her imminent victory. Preparing to make way for Royce’s collapse, Arya was intensely surprised when she felt a sudden but powerful blow to her back that knocked her down to the very dirt she expected her opponent to fall to. 

Arya immediately attempted to roll to the side, but found herself unable when the wind was knocked out of her by a forceful, rapid kick. It seemed the Bronze Yohn favored his left foot, and was more than capable of remaining on two even with a gaping hole in his calf. He had not had enough time to cleave Arya in half, but her lunge had given him the perfect opportunity to stop her momentum with the hilt of his sword. He had thrusted downward and let gravity be his aid. 

Needle had fallen out of her grip, but Arya mustered the strength to pick it up and reassume a fighting stance. Combat was all about footwork - Syrio Forel had taught her that when she was nothing more than an innocent, and she would be foolish to forget the most basic of her lessons now. She winced, noticing the intense pain emanating from her chest. Royce had cracked more than a few of her ribs; he would do worse next time. She didn’t have the energy for another rush, but she could still outmaneuver her opponent. Without outwitting him, without exploiting some moment of vulnerability, there was simply no hope for Arya to overcome the Bronze Yohn’s raw strength. 

Moving towards her opponent with as much speed as she could muster, Arya charged blindly at Royce’s left side. Every step she took brought a jolt of pain - an uncomfortable reminder of the fate that would befall her should she falter. But regardless of her self-discipline, Arya could not match the Bronze Yohn, who retained the benefit of an uninjured core. He had anticipated an attack to his vulnerable left side, and had been readying himself to attack since Arya had recovered from her fall to the dirt. He simply remained steadfast in his position and swung at Arya with an immense heave. Arya, only having a split second to react, slid her legs roughly into the dirt, with Royce’s greatsword ripping through her clothes and creating a deep gash in her side. 

Overwhelmed with the sensation of pain, Arya forced herself to turn around and assess her surroundings. For a brief second, she experienced a familiar sense of elation - her plan had worked, and she had outmaneuvered the Bronze Yohn. She had landed on the ground directly behind his left side, and had recovered from Royce’s swing faster than the man himself. Seizing the opportunity, Arya forced herself onto her feet, angled Needle and plunged it and the back of the unsuspecting Lord’s left calf. He howled in pain - the first noise she had managed to elicit out of him since the combat began. His legs briefly trembled before giving out and collapsing, his body falling onto the ground beside her. 

Without waiting for him to recover, Arya quickly grabbed the back of the enormous man’s head, yanking him towards her without warning. She pushed Needle’s tip to the back of his neck until its edge had drawn a pinprick of blood. Arya leaned closer towards the downed figure, bringing her lips to the edge of Royce’s earlobes. “I’d never lower myself to defeat by a doddering old fool like you,” she whispered before swiftly impaling her sword through his neck. 

Short, rapid spurts of red erupted from the Bronze Yohn’s neck as his head collapsed into the dirt, bringing an end to the famed fighting career of the aged Valeman. Arya raised herself off of the ground and stared as clearly as she could through her dust-covered eyes at the crowd in Winterfell’s courtyard. The pervading reaction was silence, as hundreds of bystanders stared almost lifelessly into the distance behind her. Arya was too exhausted to celebrate her victory with any grandiose declaration or extravagant flourish, but she had expected something more expressive from her captors after they witnessed her defeat one of the greatest fighters in the known world. She doubted Sansa or Littlefinger, in all of their scheming, had expected her to come out on top. By rights, Arya was now a free woman, judged innocent by the light of the Gods. Arya turned to face her sister, ready for Sansa’s tepid proclamation of her innocence. 

What Arya saw instead was a much more unexpected sight. A large train of soldiers from every creed imaginable were pouring through Winterfell’s gates in lockstep. Two figures, a man and a woman, were rapidly approaching from the distance towards the assembled crowd in the courtyard. Sansa, Bran and Littlefinger all seemed to be petrified, having turned to meet them but unwilling to move any further. Fueled only by adrenaline, Arya ran as fast as she could towards her siblings. If they would not muster the willpower to declare her innocent, Arya would make them. 

As she drew closer to where her siblings stood in wait, Arya found it harder and harder to maintain her pace. The gash in her side became more aggravating with every step, and soon Arya’s run became more of a stumble. Forcing herself to disregard the pain from her injury, she advanced past an astonished Littlefinger before finally coming to a halt between Sansa and Bran. After drawing in a few pained gasps, Arya raised her head to her sister’s, expecting a response. But to her presence Sansa seemed completely unbothered, only continuing to stare emotionlessly at the two rapidly-approaching outsiders. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Arya heard the man angrily yell as he approached the Stark siblings. Black hair, brown eyes and a scraggly black beard greeted Arya as she turned her gaze to the newcomer, his familiar appearance sparking an epiphany in her. “Jon?” Arya said, scarcely believing her own eyes. “Jon? Jon? Is that you?” 

Despite Arya’s cries reaching a crescendo, Jon’s eyes never met hers, his head turned in disbelief towards the crumpled body behind her. “I demand to be told what is going on,” Arya heard a feminine voice shout nearby. She turned as a platinum-blonde haired woman raced towards Jon, coming to his side before gazing expectantly at the Stark siblings. 

Despite the sudden arrival of an army of foreigners in the Winterfell courtyard, Sansa seemed to have regained her composure. To the woman’s demand, Sansa only clasped her hands together and smiled knowingly. 

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.”


	4. King's Landing II

It was dawn in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, with the gentle crashing of waves against the cliffs of the city and its surroundings a constant to the lives of its residents. The soothing sound of water hitting against the edge of the shoreline was as familiar to King’s Landing as a torrent of rain was to Storm’s End, or the piercing cry of a raven to the Arbor. 

Ironically, it was a rare occasion when any denizen of Westeros’ greatest city actually traveled near the shoreline. Most Kingslanders were lowborn, and either had occupations that demanded they remain in a specific area, or simply resorted to begging near the city gates. Free-roaming merchants had long-since disappeared from the streets of King’s Landing, with trade being nearly nonexistent in Westeros since the War of the Five Kings. The city center was the heart of King’s Landing to its people, and to most of them, a glimpse of the sea was as elusive as a fine hippocras. 

This was not the case for Qyburn. 

The aged Hand of the Queen walked quickly along the high walls of King’s Landing, the cawing of seagulls accompanying him all the while. To his left lay the seemingly-endless waters of the Narrow Sea, as vast and featureless as the Wildling wastes to the North. The Iron Fleet was arrayed there too, an immense flotilla of warships that colored the otherwise colorless sea. On another occasion, the Hand might have reflected longer on the contrasting designs of Euron’s captured Essoi vessels and his native Westerosi ships, but he made a note to inspect the fleet in greater detail on a later date. In the present, Qyburn had a much more important task at hand. 

As he neared the towers of the Red Keep, Qyburn glanced at the guardsmen surrounding its exterior entrance. He had taken the liberty of requisitioning the assets of the former Faith Militant, and had been taking upon himself to redirect their wealth towards his own projects - if they benefited the interests of the Iron Throne. He took his position as Hand of the Queen quite seriously. A miniaturized version of Ser Gregor’s armor now adorned the members of the Queensguard - headed by none other than Ser Gregor himself. The Queensguard had been recruited as a temporary force, with the Iron Throne lacking the resources to outfit a search among loyal nobles to fill its ranks. Only Ser Gregor remained of the old Kingsguard, the rest having all died, deserted or defected. 

Most in the Seven Kingdoms feared Queen Cersei, but those who didn’t revered her. She had abolished the centuries-old restriction on the requirement of seven Queensguards; the Seven and their lickspittles had ruled her enough already. Its ranks now numbered dozens of veteran knights, who accompanied the Queen at nearly all times. 

The Queensguard had arranged themselves in a half-square, standing straight-backed and attentive. The Queen stood in their center, clothed in a tight-fitting black dress that clung firmly to her body. Cersei had always preferred monochromatic outfits, but as an homage to the power and wealth of the Iron Throne, she had adorned herself in golden shoulder armor, a smattering of jewels, and a ridged undershirt that was nearly hidden beneath the dress. Small golden chains links were wrapped around her clothes, adding a regal tone to the otherwise-menacing outfit. The court couturier had been busy since Cersei’s coronation, creating an endless array of black, red and golden raiment. Part of the Queen’s power was in her appearance, and it was doubly frightening to most that one so beautiful could be as vicious as she. Cersei seemed impassive, as always, but Qyburn knew that beneath her cold and unfeeling guise, she was just as sentimental and sensitive as any other man, if not more. He did not tarry in his thoughts for long, though. The Queen was waiting. 

Walking swiftly to her side as if her shadow, Qyburn stopped himself inches away from Cersei’s position and spoke without a moment’s pause. “Your Grace, I’m afraid I bring terrible news. The dead have broken through the Wall.” Cersei briefly glanced downwards, her stoic expression never once breaking. She closed her eyes and Qyburn watched as the corners of her lips curled upwards into a smirk. 

“Good,” she said, and turned to leave without another word. 

***

Qyburn watched cooly as the last vestiges of daylight fled the Great Hall. The seat of power in the Seven Kingdoms, the home of the Iron Throne and the dwelling of the most powerful woman in Westeros - the room was illuminated only by the light of a few select pyres, their flames crackling throughout the throne room. A messenger had informed him the Iron Fleet’s flagship, the Silence, had docked into port, bringing with it Lord Harry Strickland, the captain of the Golden Company and Euron Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Isles. Qyburn and the Queensguard had been waiting with the Queen for a short while, preparing to meet Euron and Captain Strickland when they had finished making their way through the large city. 

Ser Gregor tensed at the Queen’s side as the massive doors to the Great Hall slowly creaked open, revealing two small, but steadily approaching figures. Qyburn noticed Euron’s black cloak immediately, but his gold-clothed companion was unfamiliar to him. He wondered how Cersei would react to the clothes of the man - who he presumed was Captain Strickland - who had unwittingly fashioned himself in the manner of the late King Joffrey. 

The two men advanced cautiously towards the Iron Throne, with Euron at one point shoving his slow-moving companion forward. When the two finally reached the steps beneath the Iron Throne, they stepped apart, clasped their hands behind their backs and waited to be received.

Without sparing more than glance at the two upon their arrival, Cersei began addressing them. “My Lords,” she said. “I am immensely grateful for your presence here in King’s Landing.” 

“As am I, your Grace.” said Captain Strickland. 

“As am I,” said Euron, before pausing a moment to look at his companion. “You know, the whole time I was out on the open sea, what kept me going was imagining the face of the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I thought of her constantly. When I would stare out at waves of endless blue, there she was, clear as day. When I would raid ashore for supplies, there she was, clear as day. When I would flog a man, there she was, clear as day. When I would piss overboard, there she was, clear as day. And now here we are, at her feet, ready to serve.” He leaned towards Strickland and hardened his gaze into an intense stare. “I like where this is going.”

When Euron’s speech ended, quiet reigned in the Great Hall. The Greyjoy man had elicited no reaction from Qyburn, Gregor or Cersei, but Strickland shifted in his spot nervously. “And what of the men you have brought with you?” Cersei interjected suddenly. “Twenty-thousand men?” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Strickland responded. “A few died in transit.” 

To this, Euron shrugged nonchalantly. “They cheated at dice! Or maybe I cheated.” He furrowed his brow. “Someone cheated.” Strickland glanced at Euron and shook his head slightly. “They weren’t good fighters. You won’t miss them,” Euron added. 

Cersei turned her head towards Ser Gregor in an exasperated look. “Horses?” she queried. 

“Two-thousand,” Strickland said. 

“And elephants?” Cersei asked expectantly. 

“No elephants, Your Grace,” Strickland said hesitantly. 

Cersei paused for moment, fixing her gaze directly on Strickland. “That’s disappointing,” she said through gritted teeth. “I was told the Golden Company had elephants.” 

“They are excellent beasts, Your Grace, but not well suited to sea voyag-” 

“Lord Greyjoy,” Cersei interrupted. “How many ships are in the Iron Fleet?” 

Euron beamed. “It’s hard to say, Your Grace.” He shrugged. “I’ve captured quite a number of ships since I took command. The fleet numbers in the low hundreds, at least.” 

“Lord Qyburn,” Cersei said, turning to the aging Hand at her side. 

“Your Grace,” he said, nodding his head. 

“What of the Targaryen fleet?” 

“It is a nigh-nonexistent entity, Your Grace. Ever since Lord Greyjoy’s attack, the Targaryen girl and her allies have had little but a few fishing boats to their name.” At this, Cersei turned to Euron. 

“Surely the greatest fleet Westeros has ever seen can spare seventy-five ships. Fifty for the elephants and twenty-five for their supplies.” She turned to Captain Strickland and smiled wickedly. “Would that suffice for transport?” 

“O-of course, Your Grace. Thank you,” he stammered. Cersei straightened herself up on the Iron Throne. 

“What about one of your lieutenants? Surely the esteemed Golden Company could spare one of its many commanders for the supervision of this voyage.” 

“I’ll send one of my most loyal men, Your Grace,” Strickland responded. 

“Who?” Cersei asked impatiently. 

“His name…” Strickland said, his eyes darting nervously around the room. “Um, his name is-” 

“Speak up, Captain Strickland,” Euron said, giving the man a light shove. “Your Queen asked you a question.” 

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Strickland said apprehensively. “His name is… Little Pussy.” 

“Little Pussy?!” Cersei exclaimed angrily. “Is this what the Golden Company has come to? Reneging on its contracts, gambling away its fortune and elevating whores to its command?” 

“Um, Your Grace, I apologize, he’s named for his Cat.” 

“His cat?” Cersei replied flatly, sounding as if it were more of a statement than a question. 

“Yes, Your Grace, um - his cat. His small, lucky little pussy.” 

At this, Cersei leaned forward on the Iron Throne and stared directly into Strickland’s eyes, her gaze penetrating into the very essence of his soul. “I’m very glad we could reach a satisfying conclusion to this problem,” she remarked pointedly. “In any event, you are most welcome here in King’s Landing, Captain Strickland.” 

“We look forward to fighting on your behalf, Your Grace, but I do have a favor to ask,” Strickland said, seemingly regaining his confidence. 

“And what might that be?” Cersei asked. 

“To give the Golden Company the privilege of enforcing your judgment towards captives,” Strickland said. “And a hand in whatever it is you do to Daenerys Targaryen.” 

Cersei bristled at this. “Do what you wish with the prisoners, but I have my own plans for the Targaryen girl.” 

“As you wish, Queen Lannister,” Strickland replied deferentially. 

“Queen Lannister?” Cersei said, scoffing lightly. “House Lannister has but one Queen.” 

“M-my apologies, Queen Cersei,” Strickland said, stuttering. “And thank you.” He bowed his head, turned and exited the throne room. 

As the Great Hall’s doors came crashing together in a loud thud, Euron stood awkwardly off at the steps of the Iron Throne. “Am I most welcome here?” he asked. 

Smiling genuinely, Cersei looked towards Euron. “You are a true friend of the Crown. And an honored guest.” 

“Good,” replied Euron, flashing Cersei a sly smile. “As a true friend, and an honored guest…” he said, letting his words hang in the air. Without warning, he started up the steps towards her, moving only a few paces before Ser Gregor blocked his ascent. Euron cocked his head and looked towards Cersei. “I was hoping we could talk in private,” he whispered. 

“Out of the question,” she replied curtly. “After the war. That was our agreement.” 

“Wars sometimes last years,” Euron said huskily. 

To this, Cersei shed any pretense of apathy in her voice. She seemed genuinely angry for the first time since Jaime’s betrayal. “You want a whore,” she hissed. “Buy one. You want a Queen? Earn her,” she said, rising from the Throne and moving to depart the Great Hall. She glanced at Clegane as she moved towards the exit to her chambers. 

“How?” Shouted Euron. Cersei halted, surprised by his outburst. “I’ve given her justice, an army, and even the Iron Fleet - yet, she gives me no sign of affection. My heart is nearly broken,” Euron exclaimed dramatically. 

Cersei turned to face him in one swift motion. “You’re insolent,” she said. “I’ve executed men for less.” 

“They were lesser men,” Euron replied, a hint of pleading in his voice. Hearing this, Qyburn glanced towards her. Cersei caught his gaze and they shared a solemn look for a brief moment before she turned to depart to her chambers. At the entrance, she came to a halt. Euron stared intensely towards her direction, seeming unexpectedly earnest in his intentions. 

For a long moment, not a sound was heard in the Great Hall but the crackling of fires and the deep, soft breathing of an anxious and tired few. After what seemed an eternity, Cersei broke the silence and spoke. “I cannot give you what you want. Not today. But what I can give, I will. Meet me in the small council chambers tomorrow at dawn. I will have the servants prepare a chamber for you here in the Red Keep. Goodnight, Lord Euron,” she said. 

Euron paused before replying. “I hope what you are promising is as gratifying as you have made it seem. Goodnight, my Queen,” he said, bowing. After Euron finished, Cersei at last exited the Great Hall to her chambers in a slow, elegant gait. The Queen had spoken, and now the Queen would rest. 

***  
“I hear the dragon burnt up a thousand Lannister men,” the second whore said, chattering away with her companions. “Burnt up some of my favorite boys.” 

“Archie, was it?” the first whore asked. 

“And William,” the second replied. 

“Tall, handsome William?” the first whore exclaimed. 

“Yeah - tall, handsome William,” her friend responded. “I hear what’s left of him could fit in a wine glass.” 

“I,” Bronn interjected suddenly. “Am the only man you ever met who shot a dragon.” 

“Didja?” the third whore asked inquisitively. 

“That’s brave,” the second woman stated flatly, before forcefully shoving Bronn onto his back, his head lying flat against the bed. She quickly and skillfully mounted him, and the sounds of their moans filled the room. 

“That boy, Eddie,” spoke the first whore abruptly. 

“The ginger?” the third woman asked. 

“That’s him.” the second woman replied solemnly. “Came back with his face burnt right off. He’s got no eyelids now,” she said, ignoring Bronn's pleading moans. 

“How does he sleep with no eyelids?” the third whore asked, recoiling in shock. 

“All right,” Bronn exclaimed agitatedly. “Can we stop talking about the fucking dragon no-”

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?” Qyburn spoke suddenly, the abruptness of his voice causing all three girls to turn their attention from their client and towards the elderly Hand. 

Bronn sat up slightly, his cock still encased in the soft flesh of the second whore. “You’re kidding me,” he said. 

“Apologies for the interruption,” Qyburn said sincerely. “But the Queen did urge me to hurry.” 

“Sorry ladies,” Bronn said, tucking his member swiftly into his pants. “Another time, perhaps.” 

The whores dispersed from Bronn’s side, but not before the second woman approached Qyburn with a smile. “You ever get lonely, I am partial to older gentlemen,” the woman said, before departing in the nude. 

“Poor girl,” Qyburn remarked morosely. “The pox will take her within the year.” 

Hearing this, Bronn retched in disgust. “Which girl?” he asked.

“The Queen’s brothers made promises to you and broke them,” Qyburn said, ignoring him. “Her Grace wants to rectify their mistake.” 

“She once gave me a castle and a wife,” Bronn said matter-of-factly. “Then rectified me right out of it.” 

“That was Ser Jaime’s doing, not hers.” Qyburn replied. “When Queen Cersei wants something, she pays in advance and in gold. Several chests of it, in fact. Waiting for you in a wagon just outside.” 

Hearing this, Bronn halted his halfhearted attempts at decoration and sat down, turning his gaze towards Qyburn. “So she wants to murder someone, but she can’t send her soldiers,” he remarked pointedly. “If it’s the dragon Queen she’s after…” 

“She has other plans for the Targaryen girl,” Qyburn replied. 

“Yeah,” Bronn said before rising from his seat. “Well, good luck with that.” 

“Our Queen’s brothers are unlikely to survive their northern adventures. But, in the event that they do,” he said, before signalling for a heavily-armored Lannister guardsmen to enter the room. The guardsman kneeled before Qyburn and presented him with an enormous crossbow, which the Hand eagerly plucked out of his hands. He motioned for the guardsman to leave, and held out the crossbow, locking his gaze with Bronn’s. “She has a keen sense of poetic justice.” 

“That fucking family,” Bronn exclaimed in disbelief. 

“When the Citadel expelled me,” Qyburn began. “I thought I would die poor and alone. But in exchange for my service, Queen Cersei made me her hand. What will she do for the man who rids her of her treasonous brothers?” 

***

Small rays of sunlight permeated into the darkness of the small council chamber, illuminating the ornate wooden furniture dotted about the tiny room. Little had changed even since the outbreak of the War of the Five Kings - the room had not endured any major renovations for a long time. The chamber’s decor was something that Queen Cersei had always made it a priority to arrange herself, but nothing new had been added to the room since her coronation. It stood as it had for years: furnished with copious amounts of flowers and vines, one table, eight chairs, a large pitcher of Dornish Red and the Lannister sigil mounted overhead. 

In her large, extravagant seat at the head of the table, Cersei stared off into the courtyard windows, her mind seemingly adrift in another world. She had been in a near-catatonic since her arrival in the chamber some time ago, and her troubled expression was not assuaged even with copious amounts of wine. Seated at the opposite end of the table, Qyburn examined the reticent, lonely Queen. Worry lined her face, making Cersei seem years older. Her depressive state greatly concerned the Hand; despair would not be good for the baby. 

“Your Grace, I believe Lord Greyjoy should be arriving here shortly,” Qyburn said, speaking abruptly. “His chambers are not far from here, and the Ironborn are not known for their laziness. I can’t imagine he would keep you waiting for much longer.” 

“Hmm?” Cersei said groggily. “Lord Greyjoy? Thank you, Lord Hand. His truancy is no matter of great importance, provided he doesn’t keep me waiting as the dragon Queen did. For one so torpid and slow-witted as she, it is a wonder her armies march as quickly as they do.” 

“I have pondered that question on many occasions myself, Your Grace,” Qyburn replied cordially. He was pleased to have elicited a response from the Queen. “In any event, our forces move swiftly as well. The portion of the Iron Fleet you selected left the shores of King’s Landing before sunrise. We expect them to arrive in the Disputed Lands in three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” Cersei said, seemingly dissatisfied. “Then it will be doubly long before we can make use of the elephants.” 

“The elephants will be a welcome addition to your forces, Your Grace, but the Iron Throne still has considerable assets to its name. Levies from the retinues of loyal Lords are making their way to King’s Landing as we speak.” 

“And what of our enemies?” Cersei inquired. 

“My Queen,” Qyburn replied calmly. “It is of little use worrying about the Targaryen girl’s armies until she has met the army of the dead in battle. It will be much time before she - or the men of ice - are of any concern.” 

As Qyburn was addressing Cersei, the entrance to the small council chamber was abruptly flung open, revealing the upbeat, lively figure of Euron Greyjoy. “Your Grace,” he said, nodding at Cersei. “Lord Qyburn. Ser Gregor.” At Euron’s mention of him, the latter man only growled in his seat to the left of Qyburn, shifting his right hand so that it rested on his scabbard. “Now,” Euron said cheerfully. “Will one of you please inform me what it is that is so important that it couldn’t be given to me last night, in front of all those people?” 

“Lord Greyjoy,” Cersei replied tactfully. “We are here for more than just your reward. Please, sit.” Euron walked over to the far end of the table, placing himself alone on the right side of the table directly adjacent to Cersei. He leaned back in his seat contentedly. “Now,” Cersei added abruptly. “Rise.” Euron glanced curiously at Cersei, but did as she said. “Welcome to the first meeting of my small council, Euron Greyjoy, Master of Ships,” Cersei said, her authoritative, self-assured voice echoing through the chamber. “You may sit again, if you wish.” 

Euron slowly lowered himself back into the chair, before sitting up straight and cocking his head the right. “Is that all, Your Grace?” 

“What?” responded Cersei, who seemed taken aback by his bluntness. “I would have expected something a lot more rewarding for all the service I’ve provided you, Your Grace.” Euron said expectantly.

“Lord Greyjoy,” Cersei said sternly. “That appointment was not your reward. You are the Iron Throne’s most faithful ally, and a dear friend to me. You have earned a magnificent prize for your valor, and a Lannister always pays her debts. In compensation for your heroic acts, I am setting our wedding date to three weeks from now.” 

“Is that so?” asked Euron with hunger in his eyes. “I can have you then?” 

Cersei smiled. “When we are man and wife, we will, I hope, be unflinching in the face of our marital duties.” Hearing this, Euron gave Cersei a suggestive wink. “Our children will rule the land and the waves as one,” said the Queen. 

“I eagerly await our wedding night, Your Grace, but three weeks is a long time to wait. I may have to find other means to occupy myself in the meantime. You know, I’ve heard Flea Bottom has some truly extraordinary services. I think I’d prefer to spend the meantime there, and not here.” He pouted. “I hope I haven’t offended your fine sensibilities, my Queen.” 

“I would hope that, for the moment, I could occupy you with matters of state,” Cersei replied placidly. “If you want to reign alongside me, then we have to cast down our enemies; we have to destroy every last bit of their resistance. The penalty for treason is death, and the Seven Kingdoms are awash with traitors. I won’t lie down and let the rabble take everything we’ve gained.” 

“Her Grace has decided where the armies of the Iron Throne will strike first,” Qyburn added. “However, as a member of the small council, you are one of her closest and most trusted advisers. Your opinion is held in very high regard in this chamber.” 

“And what has her Grace decided?” Euron replied amicably. 

“With her forces and yours combined, Queen Cersei’s banners fly across the Crownlands, the Westerlands, the Iron Isles, the Stormlands and the Riverlands, all the way up to the castle of Oldstones. The Crownlanders and Westerlanders are loyal, and will never oppose their liege. The Stormlanders and Riverlanders lack the ability to do so." 

"There is no Lord in Storm’s End, and most of the petty Lords exhausted their levies contributing to the armies of the failed King Stannis Baratheon. The Riverlands were set ablaze by Ser Gregor’s raids, and most of their small towns and villages have not recovered. Their armies were decimated through their loyalty to the traitor Robb Stark, and they are thoroughly unable to oppose the will of the Queen. Riverrun is also ruled directly by the Crown, but the Queen has expressed interest in granting it to another.” 

“When the war is over, the most valiant and loyal of my allies will be rewarded justly,” Cersei said. “Although I have not committed myself to awarding the entirety of the Lordship of the Riverlands to anyone at this moment, I believe Riverrun itself would be a suitable prize for Lord Strickland and the Golden Company.” 

“That feckless whelp?” Euron said, amused by the notion. “I’m sure he’ll piss his breeches in gratitude.” 

“Dorne’s leadership,” Qyburn added, ignoring Euron’s remark, “has taken it upon themselves to remain neutral at the moment. The Dornish nobility recently agreed on the ascension of a previously unknown Martell noble, a man who had never held lands or titles before. He styles himself as Prince Mors VII. Undoubtedly, the treacherous Martells supply arms and funds to the Targaryen armies, but they have not openly revolted against the righteous rule of Queen Cersei. There would be little benefit in attacking them now, while our enemies linger in the North. The Reach is where the Iron Throne’s attentions lie.” 

“Under the leadership of my brother, that treasonous deserter, Lannister forces sacked Highgarden and left it bereft of anything of value. The Reach is leaderless, but still powerful. We don’t have the luxury of time on our side - we can’t afford to march down to Highgarden again, forcing every single Lord to swear fealty by the sword. But we can permeate into the Reach’s hinterlands, near the Crownlands. My forces will march to Longtable, subjugating the surrounding Lords by threat of force before returning to King’s Landing. Houses Footly, Caswell, Varner, Leygood, Cordwarner, Orme, Bushy and Wythers will all bend the knee or be destroyed. With the northern Reach secured, our position will be much more tenable than it is now. Their resources and levies will only strengthen our cause, and the southern Reach Lords will find it impossible to dislodge our forces.” 

When Cersei finished, Euron opened his mouth to yawn. “Is that truly your plan, my Queen? To secure your throne through oaths? Words are wind, nothing more.” 

“Many Lords, Lord Greyjoy, still hold sacred what you would call wind,” Cersei replied gruffly. “Would you have us slaughter the families of those who have not even openly taken up arms against us? A host one-hundred-thousand strong would be at the gates of King’s Landing within a fortnight.” 

“Is the penalty for treason not death?” Euron responded, his tone impertinent and sarcastic. 

“A good Queen knows when to save her strength, and when to destroy her enemies,” Cersei answered. “Sometimes that final opportunity never arrives.” 

“And when they revolt?” Euron inquired. “When the Reach Lords grow tired of feasting on their wine and cheese and decide to press the advantage? How will Queen Cersei the Merciful manage to control them?” 

“I assure you, Lord Greyjoy, if the forces of the Iron Throne succeed in securing Longtable, there would be ample warning of an attack. Any maneuvers near the river Mander would be precipitated far in advance by our patrols,” Qyburn replied. 

“The Reach Lords know the cost of treason,” Cersei added. “They’ve seen what happens to the enemies of House Lannister. Castamere, Highgarden and the Red Wedding are fresh in their memories. They are far too afraid of our armies and that horde of rapists and thieves in the Targaryens’ employ to take up arms. When the time comes, our armies will cast them out of their castles and seize their riches for ourselves. But that time is not now.”

“There are still many affairs of state to deal with,” Qyburn interjected. “The small council is not meant to be this small. We are missing a Master of Laws, Coin and a Grand Maester, though I would advise that we not contact the Citadel at this time. They find my current standing as Hand… distasteful.” 

“And what of a spider?” Euron asked. 

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating,” Cersei replied even-faced. 

“A spymaster. A Master of Whisperers, I think you call them. You need to know what your enemies are doing before they get close enough to cleave your head in two.” 

“Her Grace has requested that I oversee that position for the duration of this conflict,” Qyburn replied. 

“But you’re Hand of the King as well. Surely you don’t mean to manage all the affairs of the realm on your own?” 

“There’s no one more suited in all the Seven Kingdoms,” Cersei said. “Qyburn will remain in his current role for the immediate future, and I am confident that we will deal swiftly with the Citadel when the war is over.” At this, Qyburn gave Cersei a rare smile. “But you’re right, Lord Greyjoy. We can’t manage the realm alone. To this end, I’m prepared to appoint a Master of Coin and Laws that will cement the power and glory of the Iron Throne.”

“Loreon Lannister will be the Seven Kingdoms’ Master of Coin.” 

“I apologize, Your Grace, but I don’t believe I’m familiar with this particular… individual,” Euron said. 

“Oh really?” Cersei asked him. “You seemed awfully eager to destroy the fleet he had built during that rebellion of your brother’s.” 

“Ah,” Euron said knowingly. “The Lord of Lannisport. A beautiful city by itself, but add in a little fire and the result is truly breathtaking.” He leaned back in his seat, the old chair creaking softly in protest. “Why him?” 

“A Lannister will never fight a Lannister,” Cersei replied. “The only exception there has been in thousands of years are my two traitorous brothers. Loreon is good with money, having managed one of the grandest cities in Westeros for two decades. He’ll enrich the Throne and will never question our actions. He’s the perfect candidate.” 

“Her Grace’s wisdom is as vast as the Summer Sea,” Euron declared dramatically, throwing his arms up in the air. “And I believe you mentioned another candidate for the Small Council? Another Lannister, perhaps? Or maybe an Ironborn would be better suited as a Master of Laws - we hold the traditions of the Old Way sacred,” he said, before chuckling a little. “Much like you and that Dornish Red in your hand.” 

Cersei gave Euron a thin-lipped smile in reply. “As always, Lord Greyjoy, your counsel is most valued. But there is already a man who will perform the duties of the Master of Laws quite adequately.” 

“Queen Cersei has been in contact with Ardrian Celtigar, the Lord of Claw Isle, since the first sighting of the Targaryen fleet. He is much concerned about the threat of the rogue Ironborn loyal to Yara Grejoy. In return for the protection of his lands by the Iron Fleet, he has agreed to travel to King’s Landing and accept the position of Master of Laws,” Qyburn said. 

“Oh?” replied Euron in mock curiosity. “And why would a ruler as mighty as our Queen be interested in the service of the Lord of such a small isle?” He leaned forward in his seat. “If you would care to join me aboard the Silence, I know plenty of larger, much more impressive islands that I could introduce you to. It would be quite the ride,” he said, winking. 

“I appreciate your offer, Lord Greyjoy,” Cersei replied cordially. “But I must insist on Lord Celtigar. He will promote our interests like no other.” 

“Our interests?” Euron asked, tilting his head slightly. “And what, exactly, might those interests be?” 

“Whatever we desire,” replied Cersei, taking a long sip of the wine in her right hand. She exhaled softly before speaking again. “Lord Celtigar has not loved a woman’s touch so much as he has loved the touch of coin. So long as we reward him handsomely for his diligent efforts in the name of the Iron Throne, the law is whatever we see fit.” 

Euron smiled. “So the Seven Kingdoms has its coin. It has its fleet, its spider, its guard and its order.” He chuckled to himself. “Yet, it still lacks an army.” 

“Have you forgotten the very reason you came to King’s Landing in the first place?” Cersei remarked patronizingly. “We have the Lannister army, the Golden Company, the Gold Cloaks, and the retinues of loyal Lords. More than enough to defeat the dragon Queen and her disorderly mob.” 

“An army without a commander is no army at all,” Euron replied. “And you have managed to find yourself without the greatest military mind in all of Westeros. When your brother deserted, he deserted more than just you. Who will outfit your armies when they march on Longtable? Who will command them if they must breach the walls? And even if you do find someone to lead them, how do you think they will cope with the change of command? Most of the soldiers will probably spend more time searching for their long-lost commander than actually marching. Your army will fall apart before it even leaves the city.” 

Cersei bristled at this, raising herself from her seat and glaring at Euron. “I am well aware of the extent of Jaime’s treason. I have complete confidence in the ability of the Lannister army to apprehend him for his desertion. Am I to believe that you have lost faith in the Iron Throne?” 

“No, Your Grace,” Euron replied. “Just its soldiers.” 

“I can assure you, Lord Greyjoy,” Cersei said, even-faced. “Our forces are the finest in all the Seven Kingdoms. I will personally oversee our troop movements precipitating the pacification of Longtable; disobedience won’t be tolerated.” 

After a brief pause when Cersei finished speaking, Euron rose from his seat at the table, violently shoving his chair out of the way to make room. “Your confidence is inspiring as always, Your Grace. Now - are we done here?” he asked, glancing between Qyburn, Ser Gregor and the Queen. 

“I believe we’ve touched on all of the relevant affairs of state for today, my Lord,” Qyburn replied. “So long as you have nothing else to add.” 

“Something else to add?” Euron said, pretending to consider the notion. “No, my Lord Hand, I don’t think I do.” He took a few steps towards the chamber’s exit before pausing in mid-stride and slowly turning back around. “Well - maybe I do have one small, insignificant thing.” 

“Lord Greyjoy,” Qyburn said earnestly. “To conceal information from you Queen is treason!” 

“Oh,” Euron said, pouting slightly. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

He moved towards Cersei, causing Ser Gregor to narrow his eyes and growl in his direction. “I am extraordinarily grateful for your generosity, my Queen. You’re giving me our wedding early, so I see little reason not to indulge in gift-giving. I have just a little something waiting for you aboard the Silence. Would you care to accompany me there on this beautiful morning?” 

“I thank you for your offer, Lord Grejoy,” Cersei replied tactfully. “But I would be extremely grateful if your ‘gift’ could make the same journey into King’s Landing its owner has.” 

“As my Queen wishes,” Euron said, raising his hands in mock surrender. He turned to leave again. “Wait for me in the city square. Bring Ser Gregor and the Queensguard.” He stepped out of the chamber, took two more steps forward and then turned his head to look over his shoulder. “That is, if you want the full experience.” 

***

The incessant clamor of the smallfolk drowned out all other sounds in the main square of King’s Landing. A crowd of thousands had gathered around the Queen’s small entourage in the center of the square, some shouting out profane suggestions and others begging for bread, coin and shelter. None dared to penetrate the circular formation of the Queensguard, however. Ser Gregor’s glare proved too terrifying a deterrent. 

Qyburn stood merely a pace apart from the Queen, his back straight and his head held high. He had learned to ignore the cacophonous noise of cities long ago. The slums of Lannisport had sheltered him decades before he had first entered into to King’s Landing. The streets had been his guardian, and he their ward. He was not cowed by the dramatics of the crowd; he welcomed their attention. All the better for them to see the splendor and might of House Lannister, the grandest family in all the Seven Kingdoms. 

“Your Grace,” Qyburn said, closing the distance between them. The Hand and his Queen were merely a hand’s length apart, but Cersei did not react to his movements. She had become accustomed to his position, always at her side wherever she went. From the battlements of the Red Keep to the darkest alleyway in Flea Bottom - Qyburn would accompany her like a squire would a knight, with unconditional loyalty, respect and awe. She did not recoil at his presence like she did other men, for Qyburn was not like other men. He had proved his worth to her a hundred-fold, and would follow her unto the last. “Our spies bring word from beyond the square.” He nodded at a small street urchin, her dirt-speckled face nearly invisible among the throng of people clamoring for a glimpse of the Queen. “Lord Greyjoy rides for the city center, and he brings with him a hooded man. His wrists are tightly bound with rope, and the sack tied over his head gives him little room to breathe." He paused. "The Ironborn do seem to have a fascination with asphyxiation.” 

Cersei turned her head to face him, giving Qyburn a fleeting smile before her expression hardened once again. “I look forward to seeing what this prize of his is,” she replied. 

The pair stood motionlessly for awhile, their minds both occupied with thoughts of elsewhere. As more time passed, and the sun grew brighter in the sky, Qyburn noticed the immense crowd to their rear was slowly beginning to thin. Panicked smallfolk ducked into alleyways as Euron and his captive came into view, advancing steadily forward towards the center square. None of the emaciated, superstitious peasant rabble was interested in risking an altercation with the most feared reaver alive. His jovial disposition fooled no one, for all knew Euron to be the most ruthless man in Westeros. Even now he was armed, with a small wooden handaxe attached to his hip. It bounced up and down at his sides every few moments as his horse plodded down the cobblestone streets of King’s Landing. The hooded captive sitting behind him made no effort to escape his clutches, his imperceptible facial expression somehow managing to convey a sense of dejection and defeatism. As he grew closer to the main square, Cersei’s eyes followed the every movement of Euron’s procession. The Ironborn Lord had, for once, managed to fully capture the Queen’s attention. 

As he passed Ser Gregor, the towering knight said nothing, but kept his eyes trained on Euron at all times. He and his prisoner would be allowed to pass, for now. Euron flashed the Mountain a quick grin before leading his horse towards Cersei’s left. The Queen shifted uncomfortably in her position before speaking. “Well, Lord Greyjoy. I’m sure the smallfolk will find this man you’ve brought to be an absolute sensation. At least, when you finally do remove that hood of his.” 

“Can’t,” Euron replied matter-of-factly. “They’re too loud.” 

“What?” Cersei asked, her voice struggling to rise above the jeering of the crowd. 

“I SAID,” Euron replied, shouting. “THEY’RE TOO LOUD!” He gave Cersei a devilish grin and grabbed his handaxe from his side. “I KNOW WHAT WILL CALM THEM DOWN, THOUGH!” 

Stepping down from his horse, Euron wrapped his left hand around his prisoner’s right arm, lifted the small handaxe and then brought it down in an impossibly fast motion. The hooded man let an agonous, screeching cry, like the whinny of a horse being impaled onto a spear. Where there had a second ago been lean, sinewy muscle, a deep gash appeared. Gasps, shrieks and frantic whispering suddenly replaced the clamorous shouting that had filled the square only a second ago. The voices slowly turned hushed as the crowd gradually examined the hooded man’s condition. The prisoner’s arm hung diagonally off of the side of his shoulder, blood spurting wildly about like a torrent of rainfall. Only a small length of muscle kept the arm from falling off onto the city streets. The cut had not been clean, and it would require a second swing for the captive’s arm to fully sever. Euron, however, appeared to have finished his onslaught, smiling a toothy smile at the crowd and tucking his bloody handaxe into the side of his tunic. “Have I got your attention?” he asked the crowd, cocking his head to the left.

“I have brought this man here before the good men and women of King’s Landing because he has wronged you.” Euron said, his voice serious and statesmanlike. “He is a traitor who felt no guilt in taking up arms against you. He supported the dragon Queen out of spite for the people of Westeros, wishing no more than watch you all perish amidst raging hellfire. He wanted her to burn you all; I believe you’re familiar with what such intentions result in, yes?” 

“Death to the traitor!” shouted one voice amidst the crowd. 

“Lop off his head next time!” cried another. 

Euron smiled before continuing. “This man has burned down castles for no reason other than to watch the flames dance amidst smoldering ruins. He has butchered little children and paraded about their heads for all to see. He saw nothing wrong with pillaging every city, town and village in the Seven Kingdoms, so long as he could feel invincible while he was doing it.” Euron raised his right hand up into the air in a dramatic gesture. “He’s not so invincible now, is he?” 

“The Seven bless you, Lord Euron!” an elderly woman exclaimed from the crowd. “Long live Euron! Long live Queen Cersei!” 

Euron paused to take in the crowd’s reveling, grinning all the while. The muffled sobs of his prisoner seemed to be only emboldening the Ironborn Lord. “He thinks he’s a man,” Euron continued. “A great, feared brute of a man. A reaver of the highest esteem.” He chuckled softly. “Well know this - he’s not even really a boy! The whelp lost the thing that made him a man a long time ago. He’s nothing more than a sniveling child, ready to stand before you, the people, and display his guilt for all to see! Look now upon this man, upon this traitor, this would-be conqueror!” Euron said, untying the sturdy knot that had pressed the hood into his captive’s face. Once the hood had fallen down, the face of the man, beaten and bloodied, was none other than a terrified Theon Greyjoy. 

Seeing at last the face of the man Euron had marched into the square, Qyburn shared a concerned and anxious glance with the Queen as their eyes met briefly. Cersei, though visibly surprised by the sudden turn of events, said nothing. She maintained the same upright, regal posture she had since she first arrived in the square, and trained her eyes on Euron, tepidly anticipating his next action. “You see before you the most pathetic excuse for a man to ever walk the Seven Kingdoms,” Euron said, stoking the crowd’s tension. “There is no people he enjoyed butchering more than the smallfolk. This traitor revels in your screams, soaks in your tears and bathes in your blood. What should the Iron Throne do to such a man?” he asked the crowd. 

“Put his head on a pike!” a filthy-looking man shouted. “I want to see his pretty little face each time I go to the tavern!” 

Euron smiled once again, before opening his arms to the crowd in a welcoming gesture. “Queen Cersei knows the injustices this man has inflicted upon you. She knows you want justice done to the traitors who would see this city razed to the ground. She knows that his murder and thievery hurt you the most.” Hearing this, Cersei tensed up, unsure of the intentions of Euron’s speech. Euron turned to the Queen, smiling and waving for a brief moment before facing the crowd once again. “It is to you that the Queen has turned him over to for judgment. It is you who will render his final verdict. She asks but one thing of you: that you be just and fair in your actions,” Euron said, before grabbing ahold of Theon by his armpits. He moved swiftly through the tight formation of Queensguard and shoved his prisoner onto the street, face first, before moving back behind the protection of Ser Gregor’s men.

From Cersei’s side, Qyburn watched as a wave of people crowded over the spot where Theon had fallen, engulfing the view of his body in seconds. Theon’s screams were only audible for a brief moment before a torrent of shouts blocked out all other noise. As Cersei watched blood slowly seep down the cobbled streets of King’s Landing, she turned to Euron and locked eyes with him. For the first time since they had met, Cersei Lannister and Euron Greyjoy smiled at one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly proud of this chapter, which was the culmination of nearly three weeks worth of work. There's a lot in here, but there will be even more going on in Winterfell, as Daenerys Targaryen and her allies meet with Sansa Stark and her household. There are too many different perspectives to share for just one chapter, so the next period at Winterfell will be broken up into many different subsections. Thanks to those who have read this far, and I hope you'll stick around to wait for the next bit.


	5. Winterfell III

An innumerable host of courtiers, petty lords and guardsmen had returned to Winterfell’s Great Hall for the second time in the day, but this time for a very different purpose. There was to be no trial this evening - and yet, the Lady of Winterfell was presiding over the chamber as if in judgment, staring steely-eyed at the enormous doors before her, as motionless as a statue. 

Daenerys Targaryen’s colossal army had frightened many of the smallfolk - and even some Northern Lords. They came streaming into the gates of Winterfell as rapidly as a pestilence. Some had entrenched themselves within the walls of the castle out of a concern for safety. Others stalked the corridors of Winterfell, barely containing their anticipation for the things to come. But the attitude of their ruler - of Sansa Stark - was quite different.

“Send her in,” declared Sansa. A grouping of six guardsmen obeyed without hesitation, moving to the rear of the Hall and slowly pried open the room’s immense doors, revealing an impressive entourage of Dothraki, Unsullied and Ghiscari soldiers. At their head stood the placid figure of Daenerys Targaryen, with a middle-aged Northman and a rotund Essoi at her sides. As Daenerys and her advisers entered the chamber, Sansa’s chin turned up, her features morphing into a mask of utter disdain. “Only her,” Sansa declared to the guardsmen. 

As Sansa spoke, Daenerys’ advisers turned to face their Queen, unsure of how to proceed. After a tense moment had passed, the Queen nodded briskly. “It’s alright,” Daenerys said reassuringly. “Wait outside.” She stood impassively as her advisers retreated into the detachment behind her, until they had melded into a sea of iron helmets, long spears and black braids. 

Daenerys did not turn to face her Northern reception until after the doors to the Great Hall had closed once again, leaving the Queen alone amidst hundreds of Northerners and Valemen. She turned, slowly but gracefully, shying away from each and every angry and accusatory stare until she had at last met the frigid gaze of Sansa Stark, who rested upon the largest seat in the entire hall. Flanking her were the equally implacable forms of Bran and Baelish, glaring silently in her direction. 

As Daenerys’ eyes locked with hers, Sansa was reminded of a cornered animal, crouching upon its hind legs in preparation for a fight to the death. “You will go no further,” Sansa commanded, her powerful voice reverberating across the vast Hall. 

Daenerys’ gaze hardened in response, but the Queen nevertheless remained in her position towards the back of the Hall. “Am I not your guest, Lady Stark?” Daenerys asked innocently. “Am I not to be afforded the rights and hospitality that are befitting of your Queen?” 

“You may be a guest of the North, Queen Daenerys, but I am the Lady of Winterfell. And I say you will go no further,” Sansa replied curtly. 

Daenerys brow furrowed, her face lined with indicators of stress. “And how will we deliberate? How will we prepare for the battle that is to come?” 

Sansa smiled. “We will deliberate perfectly well, Your Grace. You’ll stand there, and I’ll sit here.”

“Is this the extent of Northern generosity?” Daenerys asked, her voice laced with hostility. “We are allies in the war with the dead, you and I. Do you mean to shut me out before the battle has even begun? Do you mean to turn your back on a friend of the North - do you mean to turn your back on your Queen? 

“Your brother bent the knee to you,” Baelish interjected suddenly. “Lady Stark did not. The North’s allegiance to you is a sudden, tenuous thing. You are being welcomed as any other ruler would whose legitimacy is backed by the weight of forty-thousand swords.” 

Daenerys balked at his words. “I apologize, Lady Stark, but I cannot claim to know who is even speaking to me,” she said, smiling deceptively. “Before you further disrespect me, might I have the honor of knowing your name?” 

“Petyr Baelish,” he replied humbly. “Lord Protector of the Vale and Lord of Harrenhal.” 

“The Master of Coin?” Daenerys remarked haughtily. “Hear me, Lord Baelish: I am Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Lady of Dragonstone, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. I bow to no man - and most assuredly not to one of my would-be murderers. You conspired against House Targaryen, the true rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, to further the interests of usurpers and cravens,” Daenerys said, turning to Sansa. “Does the good Lady of Winterfell send a traitor to welcome me?” 

“Lord Baelish has done nothing but aid House Targaryen and the North,” replied Sansa. “The only enemy we should concern ourselves with defeating is the Army of the Dead.” 

Daenerys scoffed at Sansa’s words. “How am I to trust his intentions when he conspired to have me killed? He sat in a meeting of the Usurper’s Small Council, joining all but the old Lord of the North in a scheme to assassinate me and my unborn child. There is no one less trustworthy than he.” 

“Without Lord Baelish and the Knights of the Vale, the North would still be in the hands of the Boltons,” Sansa remarked. “Ramsay was one of Cersei’s lackeys, ruthless and sadistic without a care. If Lord Baelish had not intervened, your armies would be battling his as the Army of the Dead devoured the North.” 

“You speak to me of wars, of battles and of enemies,” Daenerys said. “Am I one of your foes, Lady Stark?” She paused. “Am I to believe I am being welcomed as an ally right now? Cersei has at least proven herself open to cooperation with our forces. At the moment, she has committed to aiding in the battle against the Dead with far more enthusiasm than I’m seeing from the North.” 

“Are you delusional?” Sansa replied coldly. “Do you mean to suggest that the North would be better off if Jon wasn’t King? If your armies were locked in some pointless struggle against men while the real enemy was knocking at our gates?” 

“Jon is not here,” Daenerys replied. “I see no King in the North in this hall. Only you, Lady Stark, resting upon your throne with that perpetual look of enmity in your eyes.” 

“For one so judgmental, you’re far too naïve,” replied Sansa. “You would besmirch the honor of the North as you are its guest, and praise the name of Cersei Lannister, a woman whose promised aid has yet to even arrive. Are you so daft as to think that she would cooperate with her enemies so readily? The only enemy she’s concerned with is you, Your Grace.” 

“And what of the enemies you’ve made?” said Daenerys. “Your own sister is being attended by a maester right now because of a farce you orchestrated. You speak so readily of the aid that the Vale has brought, but the head of its most influential House is dead. If the dead are the enemy, why turn against the living?” 

“Arya is a threat,” Bran said, speaking for the first time since the Queen had entered the Great Hall. “She kills with impunity.” Daenerys balked his sudden interruption, but the Stark boy was not deterred. “How unlikely is it that one of us is next?” he said, letting his lifeless eyes fall upon Daenerys’. 

“It was never my plan to have a trial-by-combat,” remarked Sansa. “Arya brought that upon herself. I would have imprisoned her until after the coming battle, kept her safe from the Army of the Dead. She could have shown us her good intentions - shown us that her plans were not to murder anyone who ever crossed her. Instead, I’m stuck battling two enemies: the wight horde encroaching on Winterfell, and Arya, encroaching on my doorstep. You should not concern yourself with the dealings of House Stark, Your Grace. There are far more pressing matters at hand.” 

“How can you claim to be some sort of benevolent matriarch when you’ve just shut out Jon?” asked Daenerys angrily. “He is your Lord, Lady Stark. The King in the North.” 

“He is no King,” Sansa replied. “Not anymore. The North is just another one of your Seven Kingdoms now. Or, I suppose, your Two Kingdoms. One and a half, perhaps?” 

“Disrespect me all you want, Lady Stark, but unless you bring your brother into these discussions, there is no feasible way we can prepare for the battle to come. How do you intend to coordinate our armies when our commanders can’t speak to each other? You and your advisers have closed yourselves off to the world. The dead will ransack the North while your people are busy preening themselves.” 

Sansa raised her eyebrows at Daenerys in mock surprise. “Are you dismissing yourself already, Your Grace? Very well, I will bring Jon into the discussions, but without your presence. I will meet with him alone, as I have with you. If it is so urgent that my brother and I meet, then by all means, take your leave.” Sansa raised her right hand, gesturing to the doors. Without hesitation, a small host of Northmen grabbed hold of the door’s twin handles, straining themselves until the exit to the Hall had been opened. 

Instead of leaving, Daenerys met Sansa’s gaze in a steely-eyed glare. “You would dismiss your Queen? The North is part of my realm; I will bow to no one.” 

A tense silence descended upon the crowded hall as Daenerys’ bannermen stared at her in concern from beyond the doors of the Great Hall. “I am at the head of the greatest army the world has ever seen,” Daenerys added. “Dothraki, Ghiscari, Unsullied, Westerosi - all follow me. I am their leader, and no one else. If you do not treat with me on this day, then you will have accomplished nothing.” 

Maintaining her steely-eyed gaze towards Daenerys, Sansa responded without hesitation. “Then I suppose I will accomplish nothing. Good day, Your Grace,” she said, tilting her chin upwards in contempt. 

Without speaking, Daenerys turned her back on the Sansa, slowly making her way towards the chamber’s exit. When she had at last departed the room, Sansa’s last view of her was a whirlwind of contrasting colors, with people of every different creed descending upon their Queen to attend her every need. The deluge of different formalities, ceremonies and displays of submission all in the span of a few seconds gave way to a dull ringing sound in Sansa’s head. Even from a distance, the Lady of Winterfell was overcome by the cacophony of movement, sounds and voices all centered around Daenerys’ motionless figure. For a moment, Sansa was back in King’s Landing, surrounded by a thousand fawning courtiers and smug Lannister faces. 

“I will never be a victim again,” thought Sansa. “Never.” 

***

A loud creaking sound rang out across the enormous length of Winterfell’s Great Hall as Sansa shifted absentmindedly in her seat. The Hall was noticeable emptier now, as the previously vast array of Northmen and Valemen courtiers had emptied out of the chamber. It had been several hours since Daenerys’ departure, and with each passing moment, Sansa’s mind grew ever more clouded with worries and fears that, only earlier in the day, had been foreign to her. The Starks had returned to Winterfell, but its Lady still felt as if she was lost deep into foreign territory, with no rescue to come.

The presence of her two companions gave Sansa little relief, if any. Bran was a Stark, and yet not a Stark - something else, he insisted. He was the Three-Eyed Raven, a title of such supposedly grand proportions that no one in Winterfell has any idea of its meaning. Bran never seemed to act as if he had assumed any sort of title or responsibilities; he always seemed as if his mind was somewhere else. His eyes would stare blankly into the distance, never once moving about to look across the room. Never once moving to look at his sister, the only person alive in all the Seven Kingdoms who still cared for him. 

Perhaps there was Jon, but their brother had yet to reunite with his family. He had always been independent, but there was rarely a time when that had turned out well for him. He had foolishly rushed into the vows of a Black Brother, never giving a second thought to how the other Stark siblings would feel. Hastiness is only endearing up to a point, and now Jon had sided with a foreign Queen over his own blood. “I suppose he thought her beauty great enough to be worth giving up a Kingdom,” Sansa thought. “If one woman is powerful enough to bring down a King, then what of a Queen?” 

Littlefinger had not spoken since Sansa’s defense of him, but on occasion, she would notice his eyes snaking over to her body, taking in every inch of her frame before quickly glancing away. Even after five years of knowing him, there was little Sansa could say about the man; he was much too confusing of of a person. His secrets had been laid bare before her, the girl he lived for, the echo of his beloved. And yet, the man still acted as if he was playing at being a knight. She was his pawn, his plaything - another one of his many possessions in an endless quest for domination, but he had never regarded Sansa as such. If he was playing at being a knight, she was undoubtedly his squire. Littlefinger was unique among lechers; he was courteous, kind, and empathetic. There was no man that frightened Sansa as much as he. 

In the midst of her contemplation, three loud knocks rang out across the doors of the main hall. The entrance was being rapped upon, again and again and again, as if it was nothing but a common bedchamber. Sansa’s head whirled into focus, staring apprehensively at the doors in front of her. A hundred different pairs of curious, worried and frightened eyes were locked on to the Great Hall’s entrance. 

“As the Lord of this castle, I demand to be let in!” shouted a familiarly angry voice. Unsure of how to proceed, the Northern retinues trained their eyes on Sansa, looking to her for what to do next. “Even in the face of their liege, they look to me.” observed Sansa solemnly. Without speaking, she waved her right hand in one swift motion, signaling for the guards to open the Great Hall’s massive double doors. 

As the doors were turned aside, the light of the castle courtyard once again gleamed inside of the dark halls of Winterfell’s interior. Hurried footsteps followed, as a dark-haired man sprinted inside of the Great Hall, with scores of Valemen and Northmen watching his every move. As he approached, Sansa held her arm outstretched, unclenching her fist and opening up the palm of her hand. There was no gesture that could mean more clearly “Stop.” 

The man halted a few paces away from the table where Sansa and her advisers sat, furrowing his brow and gazing at them in stern disapproval. Before he had a chance to speak, Sansa began. “You’ve not shown the proper respect here in Winterfell,” she remarked superciliously. “I am the Lady here. We have no Lord.” 

Ignoring her assertions, the man began to speak once again, his eyes blazing with fury. “Where is Arya?” he demanded. “What have you done with her? Why did you have her kill a man? Why were you, Bran and Littlefinger standing back and watching as our only sister was bleeding out in the castle courtyard?” 

“Arya is a killer. A thief. An assassin. She kills without a thought, never lending her mind to the consequences,” replied Sansa. “She murders and fights and cheats because it makes her feel alive. She hasn’t been the Arya we know since she watched Joffrey take our father’s head. She’s been dead inside ever since, and no kindness you or I have shown her will ever fix that. She lives for killing, and killing alone. She’ll continue to kill because its all she has known. She will never be satisfied. I know this, and I took steps to protect her. To protect us. She needs to be kept safe during the battle to come. She needs to be watched over. If she’s not, then it won’t matter who wins. Not for me. Not for you. Whoever stands in the way of her vengeance will become just another name on her list. You would know all this, Jon, if you had spent more time helping your own family than you did strangers.” 

“She is a girl!” Jon exclaimed. “Arya is but a child. You talk of the threat she poses, of what she’s going to do to you or to me - what madness is this? She values our family more than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms. She wouldn’t have harmed a hair on your head, and you have the gall to have her fight to the death. The dead are at our doorstep, and you’re more concerned with your own sister assassinating you than the real enemy!”

“You’re right,” Sansa remarked. “Arya does value our family. She values House Stark so much that she wouldn’t hesitate to have any threat to it removed. Any person standing in its way, killed.” She stared at Jon with the hard eyes of a woman much beyond her years. “What makes you think she doesn’t take me as a threat? She certainly didn’t think much of regaling the entire castle with tales of my treason. And what makes you think she doesn’t see you as a threat? You’ve consorted with the dragon Queen more than any of us. If you want to defeat the Night King, work with me. I’ve never once forgotten who the real enemy is. But Arya will be kept under watch until after the Dead are defeated. She is innocent before the eyes of the Gods, but not mine.” 

“You would have me talk strategy with you while our sister languishes in a cell?” Jon remarked angrily. “Where are you keeping her?” 

“Arya is being incarcerated in the squalid conditions of her bedchamber,” Sansa remarked dryly. “Maester Dorren is at her side at nearly all times. She will be free to wander Winterfell when she has recovered from her injuries, but I’ll wager that won’t be for some time.” 

Turning away from his sister, Jon marched determinedly towards the Great Hall’s only exit. “Open the doors,” he commanded, locking eyes with the pair of guards nearest to the doors. They hesitated only briefly, grabbing ahold of the doors’ massive handles and pulling them open with the vigor only a Lord’s command could inspire. As the enormous double doors opened up, exposing the dim chamber to the light of day, Jon turned to face his sister once more. “You say you want the Starks back in Winterfell. You say you want to protect our family and our Kingdom.” He turned away from her in disgust. “We’ll never be together if it’s us who need to be protected from you,” Jon said, before departing the Great Hall, radiating fury. 

“You should grant the boy the occasional outburst,” remarked Baelish sardonically. “He longs for a version of Arya that exists only in memory. He had no intent of strategizing with you. Winterfell is as foreign to him as it is to me. His time among the Wildlings and Night’s Watch has obscured his judgement; his mind is still lost in the expanse of Castle Black. He speaks and knows little. He is no leader of men - not in the past, and not now.” 

“You underestimate Jon,” Bran interjected, starting Sansa slightly. He spoke in a flat, emotionless tone that she was still unsettled by, even months after they had been reunited. “He is stronger than he appears, more powerful than he lets on. There is no one more important in the battle to come. With him, Winterfell lives - or dies.” 

“There is but one ruler here,” Baelish replied, annoyance slowly creeping into voice. He was as confused and wary of Bran’s behavior as anyone else in Winterfell. “Lady Stark. There is no one in the North more well-versed in politics, in history, and in how to rule. Those who fail to appreciate her skills are far less knowledgeable than they would have us believe.” 

“Lord Baelish,” spoke Sansa suddenly. “We seem to be at an impasse here,” she remarked coldly. “We’ve accomplished nothing since the trial - if anything, our preparations seemed to have regressed. I would ask but one thing of you in this moment.” “And what would that be, my Lady?” he replied evenly.

“Send for Tyrion.” 

***

Sansa struggled to remember a time when her fears had turned into joy as quickly as when she laid eyes upon the pair in front of her. Flanked by Littlefinger was none other than Tyrion Lannister, the man who had been her husband. Out of all of Daenerys’ confidants, there was none she truly trusted but he. There was none she could rely on as she would a family member, none she could remember looking after her with as much compassion and courtesy as the half-man. 

A hundred different pairs of glaring eyes were once again trained on the Hall’s two intruders, but this time Sansa was not one of them. She felt her gaze and demeanor soften as the small man approached her table. 

“I never much liked the North,” Tyrion said, melancholy. “My last trip up here, I pissed off of the edge of the Seven Kingdoms. That was the highlight of my trip. It is a rare occasion when it isn’t the wine or the great cities of wood and stone I remember of a journey. Any yet, here I am, in the heart of it all. Surrounded by scowling Northmen and screeching dragons.” He glanced at the apprehensive crowd to his sides. “I’m as surprised as you are, Lady Stark.” 

“I am grateful for your appearance,” Sansa replied. “Tyrion… I’m glad to see you again. But that isn’t why I called you here.” She watched cooly as Baelish returned to his seat at her side, placing himself back into his seat in a slow, intentional movement. In the game of thrones, every action of his was calculated, every move carefully planned. His return to her flank was a gesture of his power relative to Tyrion, and nothing else but. He may have befriended Sansa, but he was her right hand. The rivalries and intrigues of King’s Landing never tended to stay there.

“And what might that be?” Tyrion asked inquisitively. “What is it that you need me for that you couldn’t ask of your Queen or your King?” 

“The North has no King,” Littlefinger said, interrupting Tyrion. “Jon Snow sacrificed that title when he bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen. Since his return to Winterfell, he has not even had the thought of removing the Lady Stark from the very regency he assigned her in the first place. We are all lodged within these great halls, and she is the only Lord here. I would hope that your experience in Casterly Rock and King’s Landing had taught you the proper etiquette, my Lord, but it appears I was mistaken.”

“Thank you for your concern, Lord Baelish,” replied Sansa. “But Tyrion is a friend. He has always been a true ally to me, and has never once wavered in his support for me. He can be forgiven in this instance.” “I thank you for your generosity, Lady Stark,” replied Tyrion, before bowing in a dramatic fashion. “And as for the reason I was called here?” 

“You were called because you are the only one I can trust,” Sansa replied earnestly. Baelish seethed in his seat, but said nothing. “Your Queen has made no effort to join her forces with ours in preparation for the coming siege. She seems concerned with one thing and one thing only. Deference. She would jeopardize all she has gained to see me kneel before her. But on the matter of Arya, I have no choice but to stand my ground.”

“And what makes you so sure she’s as dangerous as you believe?” asked Tyrion sincerely. “She is but a girl. Bravado coming from her is understandable. You’ve little proof of her crimes outside of her own boasting. Is it so mad to believe that she isn’t the next Dragonknight, come to strike down any and all who would defy her House’s rule?”

At this, Sansa rose up from her seat with all the sound and fury of a Stark she-wolf. Her joy had turned to anger in the blink of an eye. “I used to think you were the cleverest man alive,” Sansa said condescendingly. “Have you met Arya? Have you experienced the thrill of having her detail to you the full extent of her righteous war against injustice, her plans to march south and purge King’s Landing of every evil, and hear her declare her everlasting contempt for you all in one breath? You spoke of doubts - what doubts are there? That she would lie about being a thieving assassin? That her fighting ability is only as good as a young girl in the Red Keep five weeks into training? You speak so clearly, but tell me Tyrion, what is it that you believe?” 

“...What is it that you would have me do, then?” Tyrion asked, taken aback by Sansa’s uncharacteristic anger. “There is no one in Winterfell unaware of the feud between the Stark sisters. Where am I in the midst of this?” 

“You’re trusted,” Sansa stated bluntly. “Diligent. Sincere. You’re the only hope of progress. Daenerys will follow Jon on this, and Jon only sees what he wants to believe. Without you, the greatest army the world has ever seen will be left bickering amongst itself in Winterfell’s courtyard while the dead chip away at its foundations.” She brought her head down, locking eyes with Tyrion in an intense stare. “If all Daenerys sees of Winterfell is a nest of conspirators, she’ll never cooperate. You have to convince her. Allay her fears of betrayal if you can, but you must shift her focus.” 

“Tyrion,” Sansa said earnestly. “The North needs you. Daenerys needs you. I need you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on posting this! There will be more Winterfell in the next chapter, and soon after more of King's Landing. Thanks to everyone who has read this far, and I hope you'll stick around.


	6. Winterfell IV

The dim light of morning fluttered into Arya’s still-blinking eyes as the Stark girl felt her mind drift gradually out of a long rest, her muscles aching and her energy nonexistent. She stretched, extending her arms to her sides and yawning loudly, feeling the weight of sleep slowly fall off like the lid of a heavy coffin lifted at a snail’s pace. Her vision was cloudy, reminding her of the feeling of wading through the Braavosi canals, her eyes muddled with the remnants of sewage from a long day of sifting through scraps. She yawned again, a loud noise that reverberated across the tiny chamber, unceremoniously throwing her legs over the side of her bed in one quick motion. Blinking twice, she rested her arms upon the edge of her bed and prepared to awake once and for all. 

“A pleasant morning to you, Lady Arya,” a delicate voice pronounced as Arya whipped her head around to the source. She had expected to see a cutthroat, poised at her side, waiting to strike, but the sight that greeted her was far more rousing than the threat of an assassin. An angel sat at her bedside, a goddess come down from heaven. Green eyes, silver hair, red lips — no more beautiful a vision had ever greeted her in all the Seven Kingdoms. Or Essos, for that matter. 

A blanket of silence fell upon the room as Arya and the intruder met each other’s gaze. Both women were seated relaxedly; Arya’s torso was still half underneath the comforting warmth of her sheets, and the angelic woman seemed unconcerned with doing anything but gauging Arya’s reaction. There were no worry lines in her forehead, no strands of her out of place. She seemed almost as if she could be some absent-minded courtesan from one of the great cities in the south, yet her eyes held more than just a twinkle of intelligence to them. Mixed in with her relaxed demeanor was an air of seriousness, hinting at a trove of experience despite her age. 

Shifting gracelessly in her bed, Arya propped herself up with her pillow before responding. “Who are you, and how do you know my name?”

The angel smiled teethlessly, tilting her head to the side in a brief expression of happiness. “People call me many things, Lady Arya. ‘Foreign whore,’ ‘savior,’ ‘tyrant.’ But to most, I am Daenerys Stormborn, Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons.” Her gaze intensified, turning to Arya in what seemed like genuine interest. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

Arya swallowed, forcing back the lump in her throat. She knew what Daenerys Targaryen looked like, of course. Vaguely. Yet she never expected to wake up with the last Targaryen sitting at her bedside. 

“Can I ask you—” Arya began.

“Of course,” Daenerys interjected softly. “That is why I am here. Ask away, Lady Arya.”

“How long have I been asleep?” asked Arya. “The last thing I remember was… killing the Bronze Yohn,” she said, looking down. “Then I collapsed in the Winterfell courtyard in front of Sansa, Littlefinger and Bran. And you, I suppose.” 

“A little over two days,” Daenerys replied bluntly. “You didn’t stir during any of that time.” 

“Is Yohn Royce — the Bronze Yohn — is he really dead?” Arya asked.

“Yes,” said Daenerys. “He is. It’s rather difficult for anyone to recover from a needle-sized hole clean through the neck.” 

“And Jon?” Arya asked anxiously. 

“Jon is doing well,” Daenerys said. “As well as can be expected for a man whose sister has been at The Stranger’s door for two days. You’re very lucky Winterfell has such a capable maester — Dorren, I believe his name was. Your situation was very precarious.”

Arya let out a sigh of relief. She knew that there was little reason for her to worry about Jon, but her brother had been absent for months, and upon his return she hadn’t been able to give him more than one word in greeting before collapsing. But amidst her relief, there was a worry gnawing at the back of her mind. She had one more pressing question to ask.

“And what of Sansa?” Arya said cautiously.

Daenerys sighed and looked away for a moment before regaining her stoicism. “Lady Stark has shut us all out, it seems,” she replied bluntly. “My efforts to cooperate with her have failed. She claims that Jon forfeited his authority over the North the moment he bent the knee to me. As the Lady of Winterfell, she is claiming sovereignty over this castle and its surrounding lands. She has commanded the garrison not to allow in more than a select number of my forces, and most of my army is still camped outside of Wintertown.” She sighed again, glancing to the side before meeting Arya’s gaze once more. “Her bannermen have fortified Winterfell somewhat, but if the Dead were to attack now the result would be nothing less than a massacre.”

“So that’s it?” Arya responded. “There’s nothing that can be done? You’re Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, aren’t you? And you’re giving up?” 

At this, Daenerys rose from her seat and moved across the room, sitting down adjacent to the Stark girl. “No,” the Queen responded. “I’m not. There’s more work yet to come.” She rested her hand on Arya’s shoulder, causing the girl to flinch slightly before relaxing. “I’ll need your help too.”

Arya glanced at Daenerys skeptically. “And what is it exactly that you would have me do?” she asked.

“Stand with me,” Daenerys replied. “Stand with me, and Varys, and Sam, and Jorah, and Tyrion and Jon. We’re not going to fight Sansa — we won’t need to. We’re going to take the reins of power from her just as she took them from you,” Daenerys said, squeezing Arya’s shoulder gently. “She has Bran and Littlefinger — if even them. We have the greatest array of talent in the Seven Kingdoms. Her power comes from her bannermen; the nobles who back her because of her Stark name. If we can convince them to support us and allow my army into Winterfell, we can survive this. But I won’t succeed without your assistance.”

Arya paused. Daenerys didn’t appear to be promising any retaliatory acts towards Sansa; as a matter of fact, she hadn’t spoken of violence of any kind. She wondered for a moment if the silver-haired intruder had a hidden agenda in Winterfell. 

“All right then,” Arya answered. “I’ll stand with you. But you still haven’t really told me what it is you want me to do.” 

Daenerys smiled, though with a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Nothing for now, Lady Arya. Nothing for now except rest.” She rose from her spot on the bed, walking in a measured pace towards the door. 

When she reached the exit, Daenerys turned her head towards Arya. “Be strong. I can tell you’re a very strong woman. Be strong. You will know when it is time to act — as will I,” she said, leaving Arya with those words as she exited the chamber. 

When Daenerys finally had gone, Arya’s room seemed to increase in both temperature and ambience almost immediately. Where before her sheets had been a comfort to her, now Arya felt them laying upon her body with the weight of a full suit of armor. 

She shifted about in her bed for a few hours that seemed to blur together. After switching from her back to her stomach for the upteenth time, Arya threw off her covers with an unceremonious shove. She grabbed the clean set of raiment laying by her bedside and began dressing herself with reckless abandon. 

When she had finished, Arya turned towards the exit, grabbing Needle before throwing open the chamber door to a cacophonous noise that had been completely absent only a moment ago. She smiled to herself. Enough resting for now, it was time to go adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the wait! College has made me busy as fuck, but I don't really have an excuse. I left my notes in my dorm, which is why this chapter is relatively short. I have another chapter that should be relatively easy to write, but beyond that I'll have to wait for Winter Break to end before I can write more. I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeealy need those notes.
> 
> Some changes I've made to this work that may interest you:
> 
> \- Every single chapter has been revised to include proper formatting and line breaks. Some weird grammatical and stylistic choices have been edited out as well.
> 
> \- This chapter is technically the seventh, but I deleted one of the others in the editing process. Intentionally. The Last Hearth chapter was just not good, and it made me embarrassed to have written it. If you're new, that chapter detailed the last moments of lil' Ned Umber. You won't miss it; it was only about 1,000 words, and had nothing much of substance. The point of the chapter was supposed to be *hint* *hint* that the White Walkers are advancing faster than in canon, as they got to lil' Ned before he could travel to Winterfell to receive a pardon for his father's actions. This point won't be relevant for a very long time, so don't be mad at me for spoiling. You chose to read these notes, after all!


End file.
